We Need To Talk About Me
by Uselesspill
Summary: Kevin's history, based on random thoughts from my overactive imagination. Please R&R. Kevin is a fascinating characterBEYOND a cannibal.
1. Chapter 1

It was a bundle of bones that arrived at Basin City Elementary School that afternoon. His name was Kevin-undernourished, huge State-given glasses balanced on his nose, taped in the middle where he'd broken them in fights, accidents, falls. He was currently in care-well. In and out of foster homes, too violent, erratic or strange to be fostered, his father dead, rejected by his mother.

He was trotted along endless school corridors, his social worker awkwardly holding his elbow. She was a pleasant young woman in her early twenties, with bright, glossy blonde hair. She smelled and looked clean and expensive. She had the social worker technique of 'counting to ten' when annoyed, confused or frightened in any way. She tried to shrug and smile away Kevin's oddities, but this child truly disturbed her. Kevin had been through nearly five social workers now, and his current, Karen, was being paid extra in a bid to 'straighten him out'-which was a truly trying task. He was being introduced to a mainstream school in order to cease the alienation his social worker felt he would be experiencing. The truth was, Kevin was fine in his own little room at the Home. However school was a necessary place in a child's life, and Kevin had to attend.

Karen wore her forced social worker smile, and beamed down at him. They entered a musty little office, and she patted a big leather chair, signaling he should sit, playing the little big man. Kevin scrambled on to the chair with a little difficulty-it was no secret he was small and underfed for his age. He sat and wore the same distant staring smile, the one that always unnerved Karen. She laughed nervously, and looked condemningly down at his long fingernails. She had always had issues with Kevin's nails at that length-he seemed especially fond of his 'claws' and denied the cutting of them several times when prompted by Karen in the past.

"This is a fancy school, hon. How about we cut these nails, Tiger? Smarten you up a little?" Enquired Karen, ruffling his hair.

Kevin's smile and stare never left the far wall, but he clearly shook his head. He didn't flinch from the touch, however he didn't acknowledge it either. In the beginning, he would scrunch his hands into fists when questioned about the length of his nails, but now seemed 'above' petty rebellion. He also VERY rarely talked-the staff at the Home considered that he was a mute, but after hearing Kevin scream, they knew otherwise.

Karen tried not to sigh too audibly and pulled Kevin firmly to his feet. He quickly refused her hand, smiling and trotting beside her to his new classroom. They were greeted there by a jolly, curvy redhead teacher. Her apple-like face lit up at the urchin beside Karen and she stooped to his height.

"Hello there Honey! I'm Ms. Bloom, but you may call me Joy, is that ok?"

Her smile triggered no response.

"Alright. Well, we're doing some crayoning! Feel free to join us when you've said your goodbyes." She stood up and smiled reassuringly at Karen. Karen didn't know why-she'd like some time away from the little brat. "I'll give you two a minute." Joy beamed, heading back into the pastel room. Kevin shuddered slightly at the childish whoops coming from inside.

"Now." Karen said, stooping. "I want you to be good-VERY good. You could make some real friends here, Kev. I'll be back at three to drive you home." She stood up to her full height, not attempting any kisses or affection. She waggled her fingers nervously, turned on her heel, and was away.

Kevin ventured inside the classroom. It was like his idea of Hell, even to his childish mind. There were ducky cutouts on the blackboard, vibrant art displays, clay, sand, water. Trays. Crayons. Mess and disorder and teamwork closed in on him. Joy beamed when she saw the huddled figure at the door. The class hushed with his quiet entrance. The new target, ten times worse than a smelly kid. Wrong hair, wrong shoes, three foot of wuss, packaged in State glasses and handmade sweater.

"Class, this is our new friend Kevin. I want you to make him feel very special and welcome." Joy beamed, seizing him by the shoulders. "Kevin, you can go sit at the blue table with Matty and Kelly and do some crayoning, ok? Draw Karen a beautiful picture for her fridge." Joy smiled inside. Busy work, she thought, is genius. Something to shut them up whilst she sorts their next step out.

Kevin crossed the small room to the small table where he was clearly unwanted by its small inhibitors. They each clutched crayons alarmingly tightly in their fists, hating him openly with their eyes. He reached out and seized a pale pink piece of circle-shaped paper. Typical, he thought. This type of shape is child safe, they reckoned. Fool-proof. He ran his finger along the still-sharp edges, proving the point to himself that this bit of stationary actually COULD do harm.

Then satisfied, he inched himself into the dinky plastic seat and reached for a crayon.

"He uses the BLACK crayon," Whispered the girl, Kelly, to her disapproving companion. He nodded. "That's an icky colour." She herself held an alarmingly Barbie pink.

Kevin wondered what was so 'icky' about it. It would have been his favourite colour, had he given it any thought. He scrutinized the thick piece of wax at every angle, before shrugging and looking at his accuser properly.

Kelly was going to be a cheerleader bitch in a few years, definitely. Kevin knew what cheerleader bitches were like, thanks to the non-censored cable at the Home-the way the staff saw it, the kids dealt with emotional enough issues, so they tried not to hide anything-except sex, and pro-drugs and alcohol. She had a light blonde braid, and was dressed all frills and hearts-the apple of her mother's eye with her pink 'Princess' t-shirt and her frilly underwear.

"Um. He's looking up my skirt!" Kelly shrieked, alarmed. Kevin's head shot up from under the table, realizing such close examination probably wasn't appropriate. And this 'Matty'…God, what an All-American name. All shaved blonde hair, the most built-up six year old he's ever seen. Bulging under that khaki 'Army' tshirt. God. His dad probably owned about five guns, Kevin thought, both scared and envious. From what Kevin had seen of gangsters and cowboys, guns were cool.

Despite the artistic differences, Kevin put crayon to round paper, scribbling erratically. When an efficient amount of black smush had formed on the page, Kevin added red smush. He then folded his arms over his work and gazed picture-wards.

"That's so yukky!" Kelly squealed, pointing obviously at Kevin's work. Joy hurried over, ignoring the comment, as was so taught, working in an elementary school.

"Oh you're finished! Let me see how you've done, honey!" She cooed. She looked down at the mess of red and black. Oh dear, she thought, concern bells ringing in her ears. Images of visits to the principle and meetings danced before her eyes.

"It's horrible, isn't it Joy?" Matty asked with triumph.

"No, not at all." Joy asked, having counted to ten.

"But it IS, it's a horrible drawing, Joy. It doesn't MEAN anything." Kelly stated.

"Sure it does. It could be a raging storm, before a great sea voyage. It could be dark waters of a mysterious pond. But I think the artist should tell us more about his piece." Joy smiled, turning to Kevin. He shook his head firmly. Joy was more than a little shocked and disappointed, but walked away, having been warned not to press him. Several more scribbled masterpieces of dark colours surfaced that afternoon, except Kevin was careful not to use black this time, lest it get him into any more trouble.


	2. Chapter 2

However, the trials of the day were not over-the playground test awaited him.

Kevin found an elevated concrete platform in the corner of the yard to sit, where he pushed sticks into the ground until they split. A break from lessons? What a pointless concept, he thought. We're not doing anything challenging enough to break FROM, Unless teachers count drawing and stories are particularly taxing. A shadow formed across his face mid-thought. His nemesis's from the table dwarfed him. He looked up into those scornful faces, a small crowd gathering.

"Why do you wear those stupid glasses?" Kelly screeched, pointing inches from the lens.

"My Dad says glasses are for faggots," Matty calmly stated. "You're a faggot." Such innocence in these words-the ugly word drilled into him for many years, but ignorance behind the meaning-only that it was negative.

Kevin ALMOST reached for the arm of his glasses, but thought better for it. His beclawed twitch was however, visable.

"And what's with this..Charlie Brown sweater?" Matty asked, inducing a whoop of delight and a 'Charlie Brown' chant from somewhere behind him. Matty made the mistake of gripping the soft woolen material between pudgy fingers and was reprimanded-The recipants reactions were cat-like…A sharp pain went through Matty's finger. Pulling away, an angry gash bled, deep into his knuckle, deep enough to almost see bone.

Kevin calmly lifted a fingertip into his mouth and sucked the dark liquid away, expressionless. Kelly shrieked and moved to push a palm into Kevin's stomach, but the move was intercepted-Kevin calmly took the arm and threw her, threw her onto her back. Shocked as she was, she did not cry, but gasped. Matty was howling, blood trickling to the playground floor. The crowd scattered as the large form of Joy cut into the scene.

"Oh my GOD!" She wailed, scooping up the casualties. Matty was straight to the school nurse, Kelly dusted down but sent to recover. Stooping to Kevin's height, She put out a large hand to grab the scruff of his jumper-another sharp reprimand-The child's fingernails dug harshly into Joy's exposed wrist. She yelped, squeezing the wound, but began to steer him with her portly knees.

Much yelling. NO, Kevin did NOT understand not to hurt fellow students, let ALONE teachers. Well, he DID, but authoritarianism simply went over his head. NO, Kevin did not understand that this was very, very serious. Well, again, he DID, but what were they gonna do-tell his Mom? And NO, Kevin did NOT know that you shouldn't drink…bodily fluids of anyone, because they can sometimes carry nasty disease. Sent to contemplate (which he did not), Kevin seized a red crayon. It was a gorgeous colour, reminiscent of something…the corners of his mouth twitched at the memory, but it did not meet his eyes. It secretly made Joy shudder, though.

Karen bustled quickly through the corridors to the shrill ting of the bell. Crowds of knee-high hooligans ran joyously past, to the distant square of sunshine. She wore a smile, not inappropriately, she thought. After all, this could do the kid some good. New friends, adaption and all that. Turning the corner and seeing Joys head in her hands prompted otherwise.

The heater was on in her powder-blue Ford, but she was chilled. The tiny form in the red leather seat, his feet not touching the floor, had created a wound-for a change not emotional-that needed stitches. STITCHES! He'd also flung a small girl several feet, demonstrating strength beyond his years. Karen wondered if he could crush her skull.

"I just don't know why you drew swastikas, honey. I mean, where did you even SEE that image?" A naive question, she knew. Judging by all the late-night cable and relaxed attitude of the carers.

The form looked up at her, just long enough for a ray of sunshine to glint on his glasses, making his eyes unreadable. The smile was there, though. Karen gave the eighth involuntary shudder of that day.

'Rejected by his mother' Kevin had once remembered reading in his file. He knew mom was a well-known designer, but the Home tried to keep that sort of imagery away from him-blocked tv adverts, blocked shopping channels, magazine adverts snipped, computer sites and ads blocked. He still knew, though.

He rejected all other knitwear except his moms. When his choice was commented on, it was shut out with a bitten hand or a scratched forearm. Kevins choice was Kevins. Maybe it was the soft material. Or maybe his way-the only way-of being close to mom. Not that lack of parentals messed with his head or anything, but it was just fucked up…That a mother could create something this soft, but be so harsh. The material was lazily caressed by his youthful, clawed hand. Then he shook his head, and the weakness of his thoughts left him. The television played a blissful sound of cracking necks, but there were bars on his windows and straps on his bed. He did not haunt himself.


End file.
